a book of antidotes by les wade
more from the "material studies" series (September - november 2012,
this book along with pre-face and poems with accidence forms part of
a loosely defined trilogy that can (and should) be read in any order.
all illustrations are by the author, unless noted otherwise.
the author retains all moral rights over this work.
press then release press
this book is dedicated to gillian rose and arthur danto
you're giving me mambo perks! that's how it begins
we still "close the day"
my liver is trembling
my "warbled" stance
my "light" drunk
bouncing up and down
on the swings of fragonard
new line city
the swelling forms
pulse is to voice
as vert is to lips
green and sour
i excite color
we'd all sit around a big table — eight or nine of us — we'd have big
discussions and big fights, we'd fight about the surrealists and french
culture, bill de kooning talked about his picasso, and gorky talked
about his picasso. there was a real hunger, we all sought each other's
company and it was practically daily; six out of seven nights of the
week we all sat around and talked...
a book between day
the other of outside of a man singing
outside the door
hot light game, several columns of drift, surprised by the out-of-tune.
the body becomes so fibrous, string anthem, whistle it down, caked
with thirst, each throb lasts a minute and soon will fill up an entire
day. the transparent elements organized into sguares. saying "thin
fine frame" reveals a story, something that wants to be arranged as a
table, intuit the black lines, the chambers and hallways return without
warning, we will outlast time only by asking the wrong questions.
this way it is thought that the scents of the present and how to cling
to the body like a thing enclosing fields at play, and how the lines
hovering over the body this way or that it is clinging to the smoke of
the present and the moments where we are counting to ten and how
they creep into our field of view twisting this way and that and this
way it is a thought, the curve of the smoke, where the outside of the
body is always bigger than what our x-ray glasses lead us to believe.
jotted, sharp, and afterwords, episodic as the law of averages will
allow, for an hour there are only fractions, singeing our hair, the
tobacco pattern, the ticking of the man glaring at the cracks in the
wall, this is how we calculate the lifespan of every tv show ever.
i think of my pictures as dramas; the shapes in the pictures are the
performers, they have been created from the need for a group of
actors who are able to move dramatically without embarrassment and
execute gestures without shame.
neither the action nor the actors can be anticipated, or described in
advance, they begin as an unknown adventure in an unknown space, it
is at the moment of completion that in a flash of recognition, they are
seen to have the quantity and function which was intended, ideas and
plans that existed in the mind at the start were simply the doorway
through which one left the world in which they occur.
the great cubist pictures thus transcend and belie the implications of
the cubist program.
the most important tool the artist fashions through constant practice
is faith in his ability to produce miracles when they are needed...
the wire in the rose why it must be an emerging present,
a slim sequence of couldn't now and wouldn't wax.
crosscut the light, the skills of sand, a transgressive solidity, light and
sand work out the wave, the only dimension we leave is to turn back,
event level action.
deadpan planet, light columns explode, a science fiction, nervous
expectations produced by three seconds of grainy film, asyndeton of
"thou art the man" becomes "whatlyou're still here?" bruised
armistice between edge and glance, where you are thinking from.
fresh putrid nature
a trip down museo drive
sunset is only a place
3 inches behind my head
already mackin' back
'n' forth the night
the weather is 1 5 years old
and they are so busy trying to reconstruct the cryogenic era
nining the chrome
stealthy approach and a room full of sound effects— something like a
countdown, a platform, a slogan, under the beach, the pavement, the
story gets flatter with every retelling, just seconds away from the
page we are smithereened, made of barometer and temperature,
slanted blue, stained with light, or prometheus in the dark, storm
gadget and clank of appearance, the work of fire, the day
is less a location than a state of being
is less an interval of time than a condition
heat and pressure, something happens something, like somewhere
else over that part and that part that is a large door leading to old
orange, to descend into the lowlands thrown together as texture, as
cellular automata, as thread, as mesh hurled and scattered, rattling
the cage of air. the hands are always out in front.
and i am speaking mimetic, but you're a holiday, shimmying and
swerving in no particular time or place, or a place to learn all about
magnets and still be spun/unspun every day. the challenge of
rearranging, the standing wave, your mouth and out. eliding and
allusive, we swerve, spun/unspun. after, and the unspoken, yourself,
the unspoken, and after that
when we remembered silver glass
mind ice and intimate the summer
is spent in swimming the
rose light plastered in your
hair i hold my arms at my side
we were building the water all
through the spring waiting for
the eighth day by their count
the weight of a country walk the October
rhythm will surprise us spilling
symbols all over the flatland
when you told me you could no
longer remember my name and
i was talking no longer than the rain
was no longer falling or
the romantic abyss we wanted to avoid
they are unique elements in a unique situation.
they are machinations with volition and a passion for stickiness and
they move with internal freedom, and without need to conform with or
to violate what is probable in the familiar world.
they have no direct association with any particular visible experience,
but in them one recognizes the principle and passion of living things.
they make the path unavoidable.
they float in the light, but will always bump into you.
they encompass a secret and always smile at one another.
the gestures they make open and close, unstoppable with waves.
they will talk to you even underwater,
and you'll want to throw a window out a door
and a door down a sink
and the words start grinning horribly
and bopping up and down to jumpin jack flash
and you'll want to jump up and yell out
"look upon the face of unruly life, o death, and despair!"
just like you're a pirate.
scent of the seven rivers.
the hissing sibilants and riot of liquids.
the endless of 1.
the hot light day when we
yourself and a
head-like intersection, x + i. a narrow head in paradise alley,
compressing the day into a brilliant blue bird and fluttering in and out
and more brilliant interruptions that target the weak geometry of the
bars of sunlight, the faces in the dark, the present senses cling to the
body, sigh the stain the faces leave when they wake up singing, the
blue expresses what the face cannot.
and so free the pattern
breaking it up into its component parts
the modern dance.
j*L*jLm 1 ft
fascination begins with nausea, drowned in the depths of thing —
eating earth, exhaling earth — the book he took
that torn a gesture
is yes written
a guarrel of color
we are performing
on the page
in the absorbent light night
i mean, it's only a movie! yes
and my other eye hiding
in the stories of streets
opening to the chasms and windows left on the plains is the way of
realization that we must do more than simply affirm where that thing
yes is lying there on the page block-like and already pre-formed.
in the trumpet of the page the external is to be regiven. and the
setting sun. we are caught out in the open places.
or counting the page, tap tap tap
rain is sleeping
in the rivers
under the road
canals and puddles
the ground is
the most serious
they can name, like
tuesday they shoot
the large blonde
the skin of speech
suddenly a vent
as art is, but
and the streets
are just streets
unfinished mud and varnish again and again what the hand burns
"semi-public auto-criticism:the proceedings always had a curious air
of unreality, one had a terrible time following what was going on. the
assumption was that everyone knew what everyone else meant, but it
was never put to the test; no one ever pointed to an object and said,
see, that's what i'm talking about (and like or don't like),
communication was always verbal, for artists whose first if not final
concern is with the visible and the tangible, this custom assumed the
proportions of an enormous hole at the center."
"the moment we name ourselves, we're dead." gooey id-like response,
a nitrogen looking adolescence, carrying your psychology in on a tray.
sguishy sguishy pipeline, radiant decay by earthlight magnified, or
grabbing asphalt, shocking information, shocking asparagus
information into information freshness, calculating it thin, butter
fitting, butter science: cotton water from cement, falling money vs.
english magnesium, and a temperature about latin, the poverty of
lamination, shifting hands against the safeness of the sea.
stumbling and mumbling in harmony, in someone's history of taupe,
no one gives it to you. take the long view, long pig in lugdunum, long
pig in laredo. can you take it? all of it?
"this is a small book and it works in ajar." really? wet before study,
not a place, just here, feel the exclamation mark
roofless dispersal through inappropriation or deep inattention, all
spaces would be inside one another or stretched out side by side in a
gonging bright corridor.
projecting x-thetics. the architectural bubble, radio face implies
projection, grid-like phenomena implies illusion, i like the way words
on the page open up space, run/unran. i used to think that writing a
poem was a matter of finding a way, or forging a path, now i realize
that the poem is always leading you off of whatever path you're on.
them and a bald uncle
them and a knucklehead
them dragging their knuckles over a head
one or other primitif (picking up the head stained Galen reddish) they
plan [spend] vision end to bit, or he to dead,
drawn off and drawn down, all the way down, to the restive colored
dawn, they spread attentively
in and through the moment of projection, taking their lip thinner
home as the basis of memory and to comment, to start their
plan to reach, out. beyond the weight of it. their time, how they gonna
nothing is easy
direct action; agency; altruism, bioethics; business ethics;
congressional ethics; cuboid ethics; lumpy ethics; medical ethics;
moronity; pictorial ethics; political— oh forget it! sexual ethics; soggy
ethics; assorted ethics; utilitarianism, followed by forensic science
and the "laundry industry"
nearby terms are:
illicit minor; illicit major; immediate image; inference image;
recognition; and ignoratio elenchi
the return of the son of them
and sloppy giant and screech head 2
they got that gray hum flesh tone, they got that cold eye zinc, that
famous " thin gyness"— branded pleather.
mirrored in your step the present attack is coming in by remote
control, that is, a system of thought that is always taking something
from you to be returned to you so neatly packaged and leaving a little
note saying thought is always thinking of you, singing, that is to say,
heads are rolling, but people are talking about jigsaw bridges silky
puzzles steel crunk uncomfortable celluloid echo plaster sguawk
uniprose ice cube bounce dyeing and soaking the color of ground
standing in all that cross-eyed traffic flat head or flat nosed our
invisible data plan has gone up in smoke but wow! that three-story
limousine's a real conversation stopper, not everything strange or
unfamiliar is transcendental, throwing out the chunky factoids in this
sleepy time realtor universe.
"it's the non-social i object to" bertolt brecht to waiter benjamin and
the asocial is standing three inches in front of my face, emitting, i
mean, it's so carnivalesque!
whiskey and peyote !
lsd and aristotle
the sun is underwater but we are trapped in some sinister-looking
laundromat out in highlandtown, clutching our tickets and being
made to watch a bootleg dvd of clash of the titans, "oh no! it's the
satanic pokemon vs. the iron yuppie!" guess this must be the gritty
and right now two and a half tons of dark matter are passing through
my head, but i'm too stupid to do anything about it.
one accident leading to another
painful breaths distracted glances torrent of moments and tromp of
gray footsteps great honking boring programmatic solos played on a
cast iron saxophone counting out the sticky flypaper time of crawl oil
drip steel slow iridescent isolation cell song that slurping sound we
make in homage to surplus value and its discontents:
vinyl finished leisure suits
the torpor of pompeii
the whole world of talking appliances
has been used
my arms unfurled
sight is only a blue bird
thought is just in rust
and the air not only looks pink but feels
pink and the eyes are an adventure in blip (and there's something
here about the owl of minerva)
international slob month
it's always a question of boundaries
and storms outside
my moveable house
a stain of
always so long
and so layered
and the long
are seeping through
to the other side
it's hard to see
a jobber on the phone
trying to find a place
where the rain is fashionable
and evaporating i
went out one morning
dry souls are best, the pictures float in music, nothing fits together,
philosophy extinguishes fire with water.
it's cynical logic
glue the page with loop!
and breathing out
the tracks it leaves in the street
the chasms and the windows found
in the woven desert the twisted planes
the external is to be regiven
a bright angle a single shot
do you re-turn a tomorrow?
in lode star polychrome madness made become alive
where the next word might come from
slick tape slow down
does my work really invite a
it works in low-relief
carrier waves in low-relief
cornered in ice
the city in bass tones
travels from right
to right again
the waters-of-strife a star
granite always carries a shape
night of omnificent streaming
the rough replaceable sky
i-rubbing to red. the broken distance
our bad approach
presses on or against the light
we see the ones
who carry with granite
who curve the hill
who stay the shape
say there's nothing in the dark
not far from home
dropping the kalends
how we are falling!
they will take my island
and i will compose
stretching and smiling
"interstitial" he said, and broke up laughing
and leaping off of a balcony
in parallel with the light
a primal act
and a taste
the weight of the light
the measure of the poem
i can set no frame
to the butterflies except leonardo's
da vinci thin parchment and dawn
is like eating a plum
their wings uncover
apace, or "again" with my "self"
since you never ever give me nothing
bone figure, bone fever, emergent wire, the cigarette smoke on the
breath, a bone figure on a beach, the figure is never really there, the
paint is never really all that plastic, although plasticity is great, bone
figure, emergent wire, a feverishness inside, emergent wire, missing
winter, yellow you! the open spaces are bending back, almost
aluminum, almost young, entering the play of the same room, white
freguency hangs loose and damp from the walls of boston, human
voices full of phlegm, it went on for years.
poets like to fall
oh, plumb it!
they did not note
what they threw away
what we still don't know
the eye of morning
the hand of hunger
if the book is in april
and i am not screaming
thin and eliding in adhesive night
mythical nausea cavernous sunsets
the edge of your name gives a lie to the sea
stumbling downstairs and diffusing the day
the house is at midnight
and i am still starving
sullen departures and laborious dreaming
my bones are of fool's gold
my blood is an echo
i am always on fire
and then i guess i just am...
the eye of morning
one hand on the sea (what, did you think i was alone here?)
slick tape slowdown, record/retard
NON-ART FOR NONE OF IT'S SAKE!
black humor : chance meetings
the cold soup of day
and chewing our lips
in the linoleum room at wally's cafe
embrace of the rubbery light
an appearance of happening
to deflect your
your dented narratives
only leave you stranded
and geometric as the floor
a portrait in place
of a performance
the left front of your hand is the unspoken
simultaneous containment and release: look for form as a cat does
when she's hunting in the early hours of the morning, moving the
head back and forth in the thin gloom, breathing and thinking become
so diffuse and counter-intuitive that they no longer exist as such, and
instead of a drama of interlocking lines and claustrophobic phrases,
the poem exists as a place to fling a gesture against a sound, and then
against a wall, how to build with spaces, tearing air. let's get rid of the
"meta" in physics— wave is the most dialectical word of all. we are
a some day painting, even though it's only Wednesday it's all so
clockwise here in the northern hemisphere, a little night music
wrapped around our hands, i want to keep the time, the explanations
that drown in rain, i heard a violin this morning
sleep & symmetry-
slipping into it
her red gold
the pliant "against"
slowed in the spectrum
the sound of sound
and sluice me with the photograph gray
beat of wings
inside it's always so slow
on the tongue
blue fades to black
day and night and two eggs and two other things
that don't go together a recording of space
in double vision— dream flower dream goop dream smoke
every book is a diptych cracked
an homage to violins
ok, if you're writing about waking up, i must still be dreaming, or
a dancer with orphic eggs, slipping on your discourse,
what song would say.
"i see" is the last look, a moment of understanding, the lengthening
road, like a recording, sound and symmetry to spin us out.
although he (pollock) wrote to his brother that he had "painted quite a
large painting for miss guggenheim's house during the summer," a
friend of lee krasner, john little, remembered it differently, little
stopped by pollock's studio in january and was told by lee that
"jackson's supposed to deliver that mural tomorrow" and "he hasn't
even started it." the next day little stopped by the studio again and
was told by lee, "you won't believe what happened, jackson finished
the painting last night."
guggenheim was working in her gallery at the time but sent a truck to
collect the mural and deliver it to her home, marcel duchamp and
david hare were given the task of installing the work, they quickly
realized that it was too big for the space designated by peggy.
duchamp asked pollock if he would mind if they cut eight inches off
the end of the mural and pollock told them to go ahead.
while it was being hung pollock helped himself to peggy' s supply of
alcohol and it was during that afternoon that he allegedly urinated in
guggenheim's fireplace, at least according to guggenheim's memoirs,
peggy recalled that jackson kept on ringing her at the gallery to try
and get her to come and look at the mural but she told him that she
had to remain at the gallery, at one point, according to guggenheim,
he walked into a party being given by her roommate, jean connolly,
took off his clothes and drunkenly urinated in the fireplace— an event
which nobody else recalled witnessing.
embedded in a thick rectangular slab of lucite is a grainy, slightly
blurred black-and-white photograph showing a cloud of smoke
surrounding what must be the head and upper torso of a figure whose
age, gender, ethnicity or even presence is somewhat uncertain,
trailing down from this portrait on either side are coils of wire
connected to a copy of lewis Carroll's alice through the looking glass,
members of the viewing public, selected beforehand, are invited to
each read a chapter in sequence from the beginning of the book all
the way to the end. miraculously, as each chapter comes to a close,
the smoke in the photograph reduces in size and density, until, as the
reading reaches its conclusion in the final chapter with the
metaphysically unanswerable question about whose dream the story
had really been— alice's or the red king's— nothing is left but a small
white shape in the form of a luna moth, meanwhile, in an adjacent
room, an angry crowd of barely remembered acquaintances, warty-
faced third grade teachers, drunken in-laws, imaginary friends, irate
ex-lovers, easily excitable letter-carriers, black-clad fbi informants,
and psychotic bosses, some with expressions reminiscent of
characters depicted by hieronymous bosch or breughel the elder,
others by francis bacon on a bad hair day, dish out the dirt on each
reader to tv's rikki lake, who, as these denunciations reach a
crescendo, gazes distractedly into space and sadly utters, "there is no
sovereign music for our desires."
the artist dons a form-fitting, skin-tight one-piece suit covered in an
array of ultra-miniaturized television cameras and extremely flexible
liguid-crystal video monitors, ingeniously configured in such a way
that they simultaneously record and display a complete 360 degree
view of the entire environment that surrounds him. for the person
wearing this suit, whatever is taking place behind his back is seen in
real time as happening on his front, and vice-versa, the overall effect
of this is to confer a simulation of invisibility upon the artist, as if,
looking from any direction or perspective whatsoever, one could see
through him to the other side, before the piece begins, members of
the audience email the artist with requests about what places they
would like to see him visit and what they would like him to do when
no one will be able to see him doing it. however, at the opening of the
show, the artist, himself only poorly invisible, settles for anonymity,
and standing next to a randomly selected art lover, mutters softly
"peas and carrots, peas and carrots, peas and carrots" over and over
the street plan and entire urban design of a city will be cast in the
form of a human face, the face itself should be modeled after one that
is known to have character (a high "tyrannical" brow, whirlpool eyes,
an interesting scar, perhaps even a mustache), and its expression
should be one of byzantine indifference, or else enigmatic self-
absorption, certain problems will have to be overcome, such as the
size, shape, and color of the buildings, for example, the effect as seen
from several thousand feet overhead as in a passing jet plane will be
that of a mosaic, for the inhabitants of the city, everyday will be an
adventure in physiognomy, your home may be located somewhere in
the ear and the office where you work may be on the left cheek, going
out for a night on the town, you might start at the hairline and wind
up down around the lower lip. of special interest will be the numerous
parks in the bushy eyebrows and the expensive restaurants in the
newly renovated nasal section, or the stylish artists' quarter in the
dark recesses under the jaw.
HISTORICAL SIDEBAR: at this juncture, it may be useful to mention
that in the 16th and 17th century the new world (i.e., the americas)
was considered to be europe's exotic "other." in fact, for some writers,
it almost attained the status of a counter-earth, the baroque
equivalent of an exotic bizarro world, where everythinq was upside-
down, inside-out and ripe for the takinq. and in this reqard, let us not
forqet that the very word "exotic" is first attested to in 1599 riqht at
the beqinninq of mercantile capitalism, referrinq to somethinq
imported from a far away country and not native to the place where it
is currently located, ripped out of context, a little like alleqory or
quotation without the use of quotation marks, "any person, any object,
any relationship can mean absolutely anythinq else, with this
possibility a destructive, but just verdict is passed on the profane
world..." this theory of alleqory was first explained to me years aqo by
thalia morney who was hidinq under the kitchen table at the time, "i'm
alleqory" she said in a rather briqht and cheerful soundinq voice, i
immediately thouqht of plato's story about the cave in book 7 of the
republic where puppets cast shadows on the cavern walls, but i wasn't
certain which one of us was lookinq at shadows and which one of us
was just a puppet, later that eveninq, riqht before i went to sleep i
remember i was lookinq at one of my shoes, "i'm all shoe!" it was
warblinq. a moment of revelation was at hand.
the hands are trackinq space in huqe-room theater
on every level
the doors are locked
one low day
in and out
you will end us
ARTS AND ARTY ANTS!
(which sounds a little like "audience", nicht wahr?)
a monstrous "is"
survey — thickly invoking— iron
filter — chunk of
blue— point, line,
point — unwinding
systemic process : binary form
pale onyx, that
borderline necessity, extreme
ellipse, history of a dot— visual texture— zero-degree— a field of
reduction— monocloned— the after optic— a hollow point— scrummed
into the margins — a basic unit — like an atom — ultimately binary — my
unlikeness — thickly, invoking a theorem.
cons human / with lunar drippings
photoslap vampire in
zoom-zoom (a consummation)
5 senses : 5 noises
going through the motions, a few weeks ago, a bird was seen flying
past a mirror, we can no longer be happy positivists.
i saw many people today
and we realized that
is all day long
all of it and all today
it is together with my head
the whole circular contraption
that sits on my head
crumbling into little
at the very end
of the day
on my head
where i can not
see the end of it
sitting at the end of my head
the container of day
this must be spain
where the day is
is wooden paper
railways and days
around the world
talking with my hands
a species in s-
crumbling into white
when i was alone
when i was very fragile
as a kind of surprise
at the end in the page
cut up or shut up!
riddle tone sign
thanks to universe
thanks to universal instability
in another city a place to try at production of another city the second
before the second famous five minutes is over, electric start of
electrical speed of unconscious opening, a case of accident or incident
of carbon and throat and the layered dramatization, wetly reaching
out beyond the dark throat carbon gleam, or maybe time to try
cherry's insomnia slam.
gluck! gluck! gluck!
pouring it on
flaring the dramatic
shake the missing spaces
lie adjacent to a world of things
and our stubborn body
lupine molding to laryngeal funk, a study of empty houses, it functions
like a narrow hotel, every possible guest is bumped in endless
succession, this could be the beginning of a wonderful travelogue.
oh the waves of jelly! oh i mean, the uranium belly somewhere in los
angeles! shining on the long con of the unbreathable. the waves of the
unbreathable in my ear! a moonwax mosaic on a motorcycle ride
shooting a movie like that on my face? with all the tourists doing the
instant elsewhere bit. oh glockenspiels, oh trombones, and sudden cut
to sleepy oboes, the populace is shapeless with expensive purple stuff,
shapeless with constant merging, light entertainment moves the
erratic, skin in landscape, a song sheds the number, rerun the zero-
time, a red room in the hills, red re-runs on white, smoking asphalt in
digging the hand signals, a trigger relationship, i met them at a
burning building, we spoke about thresholds, i was very critical about
contemporary ruinophilia. of course, entropy can only occur in a
closed system, and only colorful steps can unleash the shade of
the house will mark off its harmony, its pale system, the way of the
what the hand signifies as a long road only to add a definition, a city a
hundred miles long but only one or two streets in width, but today we
are subdued by the presence of rain and the impending monolog.
i am studying an empty hand, you are elbowing the house.
embracing the event like a fuse, life dreaming wheat, diagrams warm,
obvious and in the way. where today appears the same as today, and
we won't see the cars crash.
the symmetry in smoke, in stony breath, a little visit, window fear,
moving the sun by its parallels, its dots, flowing could be itself as a
form of music, release from the mythology of moments.
the room of 7 evenings, river sticks and broken legs and after motion,
effervescence in the attic.
fever of limits, holding a clock in one hand, an orange in the other,
torn bits of paper aid this process, "pure" air does not exist, only a
glance and"m" or "n" in the same name.
lead and oil. swollen materiality, the blur is still in the making, ringing
like a bell, older and louder than what will appear before your long
going, to look for an exit over the usual instrument, the one who does
not leave himself.
making statements in the dark, holding the night by its rusty flange,
rehearsing the distance, joining the cold, waiting for a signal, the
house is for hearing all around you.
bird-like synapse, observing chapter 304 of my collisionist manifesto —
something with length, and sudden focus on the way space was
dripping and all the pan-tones calling, but only blue can be hard or
the way a stain comes to an end in a description of struggle, i have
crawled through western lands.
faded smoke, old smoke, we walk through thinning mondays.
standing in recycled rain, smudge on smear is only a technigue. rising
at the end, we will never come to rest, a hole torn in the storms
outside, curve in the water, but weightless on the beach, the fold will
propel you a few inches above, where today appears the same as
a today in series a dissolution of the senses as today appears
dissolving in the same and the definite nature of it moving in a
different direction dyeing and soaking the color of ground different
from what we thought we were seeing so "not" today i thought as it
appears the same as i do. today.
i only write a line when i am open to it. i sing lines to the heat, i churn
up the darkness when i walk, downward and out.
journeys to and from my room, the whole mileau. the whole mispocha.
i'm secretly juggling.
break it up and get all geo-synchronous. the hard skin of the city sang,
a moment of an ex-missing person, not the line you stand to send, a
machine for crossing over, or fill in the blank.
high noon melt
space as fluid theater
it will find a performance in the fabric
it becomes a message that takes over the hand
dented narratives still find me with the folds of a radiator, i don't think
i ever left 1936. them rough minutes chewing my clanging history,
them rough minutes in all the usual places, every time you step
my moment in modernity, "wow, look at all those shoulder pads!"
look around and then look surprised, all you'll see is big al's used
sushi emporium staring back at you to give a shape with its shiny
wave to the long cool radar view, the languid gas mask theater, i want
to ring that hand and say "melt! give up the hand in your mouth!"
because your hand will only bite me back in the dark of burning
brentwood and every inch here is happy flamenco sguawk. and now
it's 1956! gluing the mambo step by step, outlining an echo on the day
my face stood still and committing all sorts of alliterative errors,
embarrassing just to effluoresce.
sound and space together, from coast to coast hyperventilating the
rubber flex-time interface apparatus inside a spherical roof,
misspelling "doom" as "dome", sorry mr. hegel, but it's disappear or
how many missed
margins and blunt
upon the head
of your francis fukuyama
action figure in
the re-running season
just as we are being laid off again?
and the radio is asking me
"how many giant shiny blue
pyramids can you see
standing on the corner of
highland and exterior avenue
opening the refrigerator door
i'd say the answer is "mustard"
or "medical systems banking law management?"
broken puppet money
expressed in poor planning,
xylophoning instead of
coughing, and waiting
for a call, the broken money
provides the edge
but "fungible" just sounds
soggy, activate the room,
eyes to kill the boss ...
"keep him in circulation
all the way to the edge"
always happening under glass
your glass eye breaking
the light through the door,
in the space left open
by the open window
the radio face is telling me
that the sea will rise to meet us
and that the sun is still underwater
and the mars market
is full of airplane
and welcomes your hunger
along the nodes
in grainy winter
with the houses
piling up and the
doing the whole
library drive -by
the divide and decompose
but "black plastic"
holding it with both hands or both/and
sign the stain the mouth is finding
the black plastic of the disc
iron music salt music
asphalt binocular lead
some glyphs in glass
filming evening sound
low-rez crashing into an arrangement
in slow moving dark
inscription, the phonographic
story circling the edge and spilling over the moment
when i was remembering to ask if the poem i was writing was
somehow supposed to leap off the page and wreak it's vengeance on
the world i was living in or just sneak up behind me and bite me in the
ass and noticed the dust and the light even mud and hunks of skin on
the spines and covers and pages of the books in my room lined up in
their shelves and a faint humming sound whose source i could not
movement in parallel
the layered look
somewhere beneath charles street
we all come from somewhere else, baudelaire had more room, clyfford
still had more paint, i am starting with nothing,trespassing the brittle
or, skewed, regardless, i pick up my big black shoe and put it on the
accelerator, the motion's in the body and the bodies in commotion.
one word is not sufficient.
garnicht and not "unvarnished", the desert air is white — mallarme's
swan, when peace came, all the little magazines folded, can you stand
the setting west? a characteristic to catch her, when they to find it
and jump to find the sea, finally to repeat, like looking for a way out of
the way out. rhododactylus disturbs the leaves of gold.
i or moi, just shouting, staring at the loop, the view cries blonde grace
of the horizon, blondie thing fires a gun. a sharp silhouette on the
back, to sleep and 2000 hours later to prepare a group to accept that
only all sides have been already and everything is ready to fight,
wailing through dimension, a sharp silhouette on the back and the
plain fires the gold loop fall, o and i, o and imoi, just shout, the
flashing of the world is hungry arriving.
listen! read phonetically, read diagonally, view distributed, the curse
of hello, a view distracted, this is the only name i shall take part of to
another city, let the horizon wash it away, the flash on the horizon, the
missing line, no rolling power in me will stop the wire in the verse,
enter a zone, interrupt all document.
i'd rather be contingent than claustrophobic, this is not a manifesto.
"for him, abstract art meant, finally, not abstracting from experience,
but making experience over through a protracted series of connected
efforts; a sketch was an event which led to another, not a draft to be
perfected, for him, as for the action painters, the canvas was not a
surface upon which to present an image, but a "mind" through which
the artist discovers, by means of manual and mental hypotheses, signs
of what he is, or might become, to this mind, gorky brought the
accumulations of the hand that reveal him to being in fact the artist
he had begun by inventing."
this is not a historical sidebar, it is a garden in socchi, where the plow
is singing to the flowery mill, unlearning the calendar year after year,
the limit is the unattainable.
originally just meant shaggy
so right now i'm saying
llama shoon la machine or
fish of the flesh
the centipede is
not short of enemies
and a yeti's boiling point is?
like one step
into the knowledge
exploding the inevitable
the sheen on all the
the sound of burning
all wobbly elegies tonight
the sun is cut in two
i like the cup of coffee
to be precise
there's only slow going
in the wrinkled air
and america is waiting
look to this day
intuit the black lines 10,000 frames a minute
we work at no beginning, the biosphere at evening, and evelyn,
already on the horizon what the sun would leave in the crumpled
and sudden realization that i've already left out so much
"a few quotes like a photo album"
"i have never in my life seen a straight line." robert delauney. my
fascination with images that do not "image"— a poetry of strong
"during my first months in new york there were many paris painters
here, at first the surrealist groups seemed to have real strength, but
little by little they began to break up. it was hard to see one another
in new york. the cafe life was lacking... as a result in new york we had
artists but not art. art... is to a great degree a product of [artists]
exchange of ideas. ..there is more loneliness — more isolation among
artists here than in france." max ernst. i'm adding this quote here
because someone once told me that the reason why waiter benjamin
never joined his friends from the frankfurt school in exile in america is
simply that, "he didn't want to be laughed at for being the last
the quote about the social interaction of artists at the waldorf
cafeteria is taken from philip pavia's reminiscences about the art
scene in new york in the mid 1940s and can be found in black angel: a
life of arshile gorky by nouritza matossian.
the quote about pictures as dramas as well as the opening statement
on the nature of shapes and the interesting observation that the
unfamiliar need not always be the exotic or the faraway is taken from
mark rothko's essay "the romantics were prompted" published in
possibilities, a journal edited by robert motherwell.
"semi-public auto-criticism" a rather pithy comment made by thomas
hess about the way in which the first generation of abstract
expressionists tended to view conversation as a verbal and highly
subjective counterpart of their painting practice, the rest of the quote
is taken from robert goldwater's doubtless ironically titled article
article "everyone knew what everyone else meant," it is, no. 4. in point
of fact, when asked whether there was indeed a community that
existed among abstract expressionist artists, and what term, if any,
could be used to classify them as a group, willem de kooning replied,
"it is disastrous to name ourselves."
the comment made by brecht can be found in the essay "conversations
with brecht" by waiter benjamin.
heraclitus tell us that a beam of light is a dry soul, but adds that in
hades, "souls smell."
the anecdote concerning jackson pollock can be found at :
peas and carrots, in movies, extras are told to mutter this phrase to
give the effect that a conversation is taking place in the background of
a scene, other phrases include "rhubarb rutabaga, watermelon
cantaloupe, watermelon cantaloupe." in everyday parlance, the phrase
"carrots and peas" can mean "i love you."
waiter benjamin's remarks about the nature of allegory are taken from
the origin of german tragic drama.
"the desert air is white — mallarme's swan" is an observation made by
robert motherwell on the grave of a miner in arizona, but ripped out
of context by me.
garnicht is yiddish and means absolutely nothing, rhoododactylus is a
famous homeric epithet that sounds so much better in greek.
the comments about what abstract art finally signified for arshille
gorky are taken from harold rosenberg's arshille gorky: the man, the
time, the idea, i've always found those remarks, and indeed, that
whole book, to be very illuminating, and also very moving.
i think i'll let lew welch have the last word:
"you need the chops, on the one hand, you have all this practice
behind you. musicians report this too. you finally get to a point where
you've got all the machinery and you throw out all the structures
you've learned— and the point of art is to make new structures, not
copy old ones."